


Modern Magics

by Dracoduceus



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Animal Death, Cleaning Magic, Cooking/Baking Magic, Everyday Magic, Original Character(s), Plant Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-07-20 16:06:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19994959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracoduceus/pseuds/Dracoduceus
Summary: A series of shorts surrounding the everyday workings of magicians who take joy in their craft.





	1. When Food Talks Back

**Author's Note:**

> Back in June, one of my coworkers called me a magician for bringing in a batch of macarons for the department to share. I of course told her that no, it wasn't magic, I just did this for fun. 
> 
> But then it made me wonder. Would it still be so if I had magic? The answer would probably be "yes", because magic or no, I love cooking and baking.
> 
> This story and "Little Wolves" were inspired by that train of thought.

“You have magic,” the customer said, sounding more confused than amazed.

Kristie smiled and dusted flour off of her hands. A touch of magic—just a sparkle of blue, which had caught the attention of the customer—dusted off her skirt and blouse and removed clumps of dough from beneath her nails and between her fingers. “I do,” she agreed cheerfully. She sighed as she stretched and reached for her proofing bowls and a bench scraper.

The customer shuffled over to the glass walls, magicked against smudging, to watch her portion out her dough into two loaves and settle them in the bowls. “So, you can use magic to do the work,” the customer pressed.

“I can,” Kristie agreed and dusted herself off again. She moved the bowls to the side for the dough to rise. Two hours, another round of kneading, and then they can go into the banneton pans.

A friend of hers, a plant witch that she had met a few months ago at the local farmer’s market, had woven them for her. They were spelled to keep the dough from sticking, to resist mold and mildew, to keep their shape, but Kristie liked to be cautious with them anyway. They were braided and woven so that the bread ended up “stamped” with the motif of the little coffee shop and bakery that she and her sister ran.

She picked up a towel to dab at the sweat beading at her hairline and grinned at the customer while glimmers of her magic cleared off her work space. They scoured away chunks of dough and flour leftover, rinsed off the marble slab, and disinfected it. “Is there anything you want to see?” she asked. She had heard the customer talking with her sister, ordering a hot sandwich and a coffee. It would take a few minutes but, in the meantime, she could keep her entertained, at least.

“I don’t know,” the customer demurred. “This is my first time here.”

Kristie glanced down at the display case. “How about some pretzels?” she suggested. “We do pretzel bagels and pretzel twists and it looks like we’re running low.”

Feeling much like a cooking show, she pulled out one of the bowls beneath her station and peeked under the towel draped over the top. Smiling, she whisked the towel off and tipped the bowl toward the customer who didn’t look as impressed as she would have liked.

They never did.

“This here is our sharp cheddar and chives pretzel,” she told the customer. “It’s been rising for the past few hours and now it’s ready to be worked.”

“If you have magic, why do you do it all by hand?” the customer asked as Kristie gently eased the dough out of the bowl. A thin layer of magic kept the dough from sticking to the bowl and tearing it.

At this stage it didn’t matter too much, but for other doughs it was a godsend. The sourdoughs in particular liked her magic—maybe it was the starter, who she had grown and coddled since she was a child—and never stuck to anything it wasn’t supposed to.

“Because I like to,” Kristie replied and smiled at the customer. “I can have my magic knead the dough for me, but then I don’t get to feel it all together. At the end of the day I wouldn’t have that sense of accomplishment, like I had done something. It wouldn’t feel like this is something that I had made with my own two hands.”

The customer watched her as she cut apart pieces of the dough, rolled them out, and began shaping them. She wove four strips together and bundled them into an octopus, setting it aside; the customer squeaked when she made it wave at her and then laughed gleefully.

She twisted a few together into braided sticks and set them aside to be boiled and baked.

Kristie grabbed a small knife and sliced into the end of a new strip. This time the customer was prepared when she made it slither along like a snake. Invisible hands—more of Kristie’s magic—flattened a portion of it into a cobra’s hood and it hissed at her from behind the glass.

“I bet the children love you,” the customer breathed, her cheeks flushed from her laughter.

Kristie shrugged and formed another into a palm tree; her magic kept it upright as it swayed beneath an invisible breeze. While the customer stared at it, she formed three more pretzels. “I suppose so,” she agreed. “They’re more interested in the sweets than seeing little magic tricks, though.”

“That’s a shame,” the customer said sympathetically.

Down the line, Katie said, “Tara? Your sandwich is ready.”

The customer straightened abruptly, eyes wide and guilty. Kristie smiled and made the octopus, the palm tree, and the cobra all wave to her. Waving back to them—and then to Kristie—the customer went to the pickup counter, grabbed her things, and hurried out the door.

“That was nice,” Katie teased. “You didn’t scare her away, at least.”

Kristie shrugged. “I doubt we’d see her again, anyway.”

Leaning against the counter, Katie crossed her arms. “She was cute, at least.”

“Stop it,” Kristie hissed without heat.

“Stop what?” Katie asked innocently.

Rolling her eyes, Kristie pulled her magic away from her dough creations and watched them slump back to the marble bench. Briskly, she rolled them back into shape and twisted them. “I’m fine as I am.”

“I know,” Katie replied. “But that doesn’t mean that you can’t have  _ more _ .”

The bell at the front door jingled and one of their regulars entered. Katie moved to help her while Kristie continued to work the dough.

* * *

A few days later, the customer came back with a little girl in tow when Kristie was rolling out dough for sticky buns.

The girl sparkled with magic in Kristie’s eyes.

The customer took the girl to the counter near Kristie, which was nearly too tall for the girl to look over before going to order with Katie.

Not sure what to do or say, Kristie watched the girl out of her periphery as she eased her rolling pin down the dough.

“Is it really squishy?” the girl squeaked.

“Really squishy,” Kristie agreed and the girl giggled.

“Can you toss it like pizza?” the girl asked.

Despite herself, Kristie smiled. “I can, but then I would have a pizza and not a cinnamon roll!”

The girl’s mouth opened comically in an “O” of surprise. “Cinnamon rolls?” she turned to the customer who was paying Katie. “Mommy, can we get cinnamon rolls too?”

The woman shot Kristie a glance that said  _ see what you’ve done? _ “Are any of them ready?” she asked Katie.

“We have a miniature ones,” Katie assured her. “I’ll toss it in the oven to warm them up.”

Oblivious, the girl watched Kristie cut the edges of the dough into sharp angles and brush butter over the dough. Feeling silly with the girl’s eyes on her, Kristie tossed the cinnamon and sugar into the air. She had them spin together with her magic, mixing them in midair before letting them sprinkle down on the dough like snow.

The girl clapped in glee and the customer—Tara, Katie had called her Tara the other day—looked over.

Kristie used a bench scraper to lift one end of the dough and briskly began to roll it into a log. The girl watched silently as she cut rounds a few fingers thick and gasped when Kristie showed off the layers to her.

With a flash of magic, Kristie made one of the rounds stand up on its own and move around as if alive and looking around. “Hey!” it said in a funny voice, two of its layers moving like lips. “I can’t see!”

The girl giggled in glee. “You don’t have eyes!”

“Hey!” the cinnamon roll said, turning to Kristie. “I need eyes!”

“Right away,” Kristie told it with mock severity that had the girl giggling again. She found two walnuts and wiggled them between the layers. They stuck out unevenly, sending the little girl into giggling fits when it turned around again.

The cinnamon roll bounced to the glass and peered at her with its lopsided eyes. “What are  _ you _ looking at?”

She giggled. “You look silly!”

Smiling to herself, Kristie turned to get her prepared pans.

“ _ I _ look silly?” the cinnamon roll asked the little girl with theatric incredulity. “ _ I _ look silly? How do I look silly?”

“Your eyes are crooked!” the girl said and bounced gleefully.

The cinnamon roll sputtered as if insulted. “Maybe  _ your _ eyes are crooked!”

“They are not!” the girl squealed and laughed.

Kristie smiled as she began loading the rest of the rolls into the pans, covering the finished ones with plastic wrap for another proof.

“Hey!” the cinnamon roll yelled after Kristie. “Wait for me!”

“Oh?” she asked innocently. “You wanted to come, too?”

The cinnamon roll bounced. “Don’t leave me behind!” it squeaked.

“Then say ‘goodbye’ to your friend,” Kristie told it.

It bounced back to the glass and unpeeled one of its layers to wave at her. “Goodbye little girl with the crooked eyes.”

“I don’t have crooked eyes!” the girl giggled. “Bye-bye, Mr. Cinnamon Roll!” she squealed and giggled and clapped in glee when the cinnamon roll leaped into the air and settled in the open space of the pan in Kristie’s hands.

When Kristie turned around again, she found that the girl had left to sit at one of the tables, sipping on her iced chocolate and eat her own cinnamon roll. Her mother, Tara, was standing at the glass though.

“Thank you,” she said quietly when Kristie returned. She watched as Kristie waved a hand; her magic began cleaning up her work station again, cleaning flour, cinnamon, sugar, and butter from the surface. “She has—”

“Magic,” Kristie finished for her. “I saw.”

Tara’s smile wobbled. “I don’t,” she said needlessly. “And no one in my family does. I just…wanted her to see someone that wasn’t a stage magician. So…thank you.”

Kristie looked at the little girl and then back at Tara. She smiled. “Feel free to come back anytime.”

The other woman bobbed her head, her cheeks flushed, and returned to her daughter. Looking up, Kristie found Katie smirking at her, one of her brows raised. “Shut up,” she hissed, her cheeks flushed.

Katie only gave her a knowing smile but said nothing.


	2. Little Wolves

“Oh no, poor little man,” Peter lamented, cupping the drooping leaves of the plant. “What happened to you?”

Brian shrugged. “I did just like you said,” he told Peter indifferently. “I think it’s defective.”

Glancing at him disapprovingly, Peter lifted the potted plant closer. “Too much sun,” he decided. “And too much water.”

“I  _ watering _ it once a day, like you said,” Brian complained.

Peter’s lips pursed. “Too much sun,” he repeated firmly. “Too much water.”

His customer rolled his eyes impatiently. “I did it just like you said.” his eyes dropped to one of the plants on the shelf behind the counter. “Now can I  _ please _ have that bonsai?”

“No,” Peter told him firmly.

“ _ Oh, come on! _ ” Brian exclaimed impatiently.

Peter held up a hand and placed the poor little aloe plant on the side. “The agreement between us was that you would take care of a plant and prove to me that you had the discipline to take care of a bonsai,” he reminded Brian. “You could not even take care of an aloe plant, who does not require the same careful maintenance that a bonsai does. Per our agreement, if you could not care for the aloe, you could not have a bonsai. So no, I will not sell you a bonsai plant.”

“Dude!” Brian complained. “All this fucking time for nothing? Give me a goddamn bonsai!”

Pursing his lips, Peter shook his head. “No. I have a signed statement from you that agrees to this.”

“Bullshit!”

Frustration thrummed beneath his skin and across the room Peter could already see the roses reacting. He struggled to keep his frustration in check. “I can show you the document and your signature,” he said as patiently as he was able to. “Per this agreement, until you can prove that you can take care of a plant, I will not sell you something that took me  _ years _ to create.”

“I sat through your fucking classes,” Brian complained. “I took care of your stupid plant. I did all of this bullshit—just give me the damn bonsai.” When Peter shook his head, Brian switched tactics. “Dude, I need this bonsai. It’s a gift and I don’t have enough time to find another one.”

Another gift, or another bonsai? It didn’t matter.

“The answer is still no,” Peter told him firmly.

Brian gritted his teeth. “I’ll go somewhere else,” he threatened.

“Then go somewhere else.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “I’m reporting you.”

“Go ahead. I have the right to refuse service to my clients. That is  _ also _ in the agreement that you signed.”

Brian kicked down the display of seed packets. “You don’t understand.”

_ All worked up over a bonsai tree _ , Peter thought absently to himself.  _ And not even a spark of plant magic in him _ .

“Sir, I must ask you to leave,” Peter told him in a calm and level voice. “You are causing a disturbance.” Brian turned and kicked over a low stand of orchids and Peter flinched as they fell. He  _ liked _ those orchids, damn it.

Not to mention that now he would need to take them out of sale to make sure that they weren’t too damaged or traumatized by the event.

Brian’s next mistake was to move toward the other decorative pots, of which included the hops plants. There was a reason that they were often called  _ little wolves _ ; sensing the disruption and Peter’s growing alarm, they sprang into action, exploding out of their cute aluminum pails like some kind of B-grade horror movie monster.

Peter grabbed the phone and called the police.

* * *

“We need to stop meeting like this,” Officer Pierce teased while his partner Whitehall went to greet the plants. “Are you done fooling around or are you going to help me?”

Whitehall looked over his shoulder with a sly smile. “I need to greet my ladies first,” he protested. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Turning back to Peter, Officer Pierce rolled his eyes as if to say,  _ see what I have to deal with? _ He looked down at Brian, who was trussed up by hops vines. “Well?”

“Bonsai,” Peter said with a shrug. “He started throwing things. The hops didn’t like it.”

“I’ve found that your hops don’t like a lot of things,” Officer Pierce said dryly. Peter shrugged. “Fuck’s sake, Whitehall!”

“Can’t move, the roses insist.”

Peter snorted. “I won’t be able to get them to talk about anything but you for  _ days _ .”

“Be glad that it’s only a few days,” Whitehall teased. Peter rolled his eyes.

“I’m going to need those tapes,” Officer Pierce said, nodding to the security camera behind the counter. “And a copy of the stupid bonsai agreement.” He nodded down at Brian who was holding very still. “What’s wrong with him?”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t think any of the hallucinogenics jumped into the fray.” He edged along the seething mass of vines, stepping gingerly as they moved out of the way for him. Then he kneeled and touched one of the upturned pots. “Uh-oh. Nevermind. Looks like the hemlock jumped in.”

Immediately Brian let out a muffled yell, his head popping up to look down toward Peter in alarm. He flashed a grin and a wink at the bound man who whimpered in relief.

“Just poison ivy,” Whitehall commented, coming to kneel on Brian’s other side. “And it’s got a  _ mean _ streak.” He looked at Peter with appreciation. “Who needs pest control when you got some of these beauties?”

Pierce rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “Let’s get this over with. Whitehall?”

“Yes, yes,” Whitehall said, rolling his own eyes. To the plants, he said, “Come on, lovelies. Remove your teeth.”

They protested. They were  _ strangling vines _ , let them strangle!

“Definitely a mean streak,” Whitehall said with an appreciative whistle. “Can I…?”

“Later,” Peter promised. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Slowly the plants receded beneath Whitehall’s urging. Peter monitored them, though he doubted the other plant mage would do any damage to them. Soon the hops plants that had sprung to his rescue—whether he needed them or not—were coiled like enormous piles of pale green rope beneath the shelves.

“Will they be okay?” Officer Pierce wondered, nodding at the hops vines.

“Probably not,” Peter murmured, leaning down to pet one of them. It looped a tendril around his ankle like an affectionate cat. “They used up a lot of energy making all this growth. Did you see that they don’t have any leaves? Or flowers?” he shook his head, kneeling down to play with the plants on the ground. “Dangerous work. I will hopefully be able to rehabilitate some of them but not all.”

Whitehall sighed as he and Pierce helped Brian to his feet. “A shame. Such brave defenders.”

Pierce looked meaningfully at Peter who gave him a shaky smile. “Whitehall?”

The plant mage walked over and winked. “Ready? Truth time.”

With Whitehall’s magic preventing them from lying, the officers took their statements, gathered copies of the surveillance tapes, and left with Brian. Sighing, Peter looked over the ruins of his little shop. “You have magic,” he said mockingly to himself as he rolled his sleeves up past his elbows. “Just wave a hand and make it all go away.” Turning the sign to CLOSED, he set about cleaning everything up.

First things first: keeping the hops vines, now more active without a body to restrain or the calming effect of another plant mage, from killing everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come and find me on twitter at [dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). I can also be found on curiouscat at [dracoduceus](https://curiouscat.me/dracoduceus) as well. 
> 
> I am trying to get better about posting updates there. 
> 
> ~DC


	3. Tidying Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote another one. I thought the idea of a cleaning witch that hated to clean her own space would be hilarious. Then again, I don't exactly blame her (not only because I am messy at home or not in a professional setting) because why should she necessarily want to do work when she's at home?

Gwendolyn was drying her hair from her shower when she heard a knock on the door. Checking her phone she ducked into her room, pulled on the first clean-ish clothes her fingers touched, and ran to the front door. 

Her friend breezed in, looking her up and down. “You’re not dressed yet,” he complained. “You’re going to be late for your date. What  _ are _ you wearing?” 

“Please, I have like half an hour before I need to leave,” Gwendolyn told him. “I just got out of the shower.” 

Seeing the state of her apartment, Clint clicked his tongue in disapproval. “And if you decide to take him home?” he demanded. “Look at this place. When was the last time you did the dishes? Took out the trash?” 

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Oh, get off my dick, Clint. I doubt anything will happen with this date.” 

Her friend wasn’t done. “If you just showered, then why did you pull on dirty clothes again?” he asked. “Come on, go and get dressed.’ 

“With you looking?” Gwendolyn shot back. “A girl’s gotta draw the line.” Clint flipped her off and she laughed as she walked back to her room. “Don’t worry,” she called over her shoulder. “Wearing this shirt for two seconds to answer the door won’t be the end of the world.” 

It seemed that Clint had no answer for that because he let it drop. When Gwendolyn came back out, dressed in the clothes that she had put aside for her date, she found him in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, doggedly working through the embarrassing piles of dirty dishes in her sink. He didn’t seem to notice her at first so she watched him for a while, his head bowed over the sink as he concentrated. 

She sighed and flicked her fingers. Clint jumped back in surprise when the plates he just cleaned lifted into the air, no longer wet, and put themselves away. The cleaning supplies under the sink came out (after gently nudging at Clint’s shins with the door to the cabinet) and began scrubbing at the unsightly stains on the stove and behind the sink. 

“You should be getting ready,” he scolded, grabbing a paper towel and drying his hands. 

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Clint,” she exclaimed, exasperated. “It won’t be the end of the world if I’m late to a Tinder date.” 

“Yes,” Clint protest. “It might be. What if you like him? What if he’s the one?” 

Dragging her brush through her hair Gwendolyn made a face at him. “What if, what if, what if?” she mocked. “Clint I swear, you're the one that’s more into it than I am. Why don’t  _ you _ go on the date and  _ I _ stay home?” 

The couch groaned as Clint threw himself down on it. “I just want you to be  _ happy _ , Gwendy,” he said quietly. “Is that too much to ask for?” 

Sighing, Gwendolyn put her hand on Clint’s back. Her magic prickled on her palm where it touched him and she let it move through her and into him. She wasn’t sure what it sought but whatever it was, it was cleaned; that’s what she did and her magic always seemed to like working through him. 

“You mean well,” Gwendolyn said at last, with a sigh. “I know you do. And you know that I love you but this won’t bring me happiness. Meeting strangers like this isn’t my thing. I’m not brave like you.” 

Clint’s shoulders hunched. “I’m not brave,” he said quietly and Gwendolyn shook her head. “I’m not, Gwendy. I don’t know why you think I am.” Then, in an abrupt change of mood, he stood up. “Come on,” he said. “Let me brush your hair and then you should get going so you’re not late. I’ll clean up a bit more and leave. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to lock up.” 

Seeing that he was lost in his own little world and not feeling like arguing, Gwendolyn sat down on the ground in front of him. 

* * *

“It was  _ terrible _ ,” Gwendolyn hissed. “I’m on my way back home. I’m losing control over my magic.” She watched the red sweep of her magic—invisible to everyone except those that could see magic—scour away water marks on the mirror and a crusted bits of soap that had dried where they had fallen. Used napkins that hadn’t been properly thrown away lifted themselves into the trash. 

Clint made a sympathetic sound. “ _ Do you...want me to stay here? _ ” 

“If you want to,” she said tiredly. “I think I’m going to drink a bottle of wine by myself and then go to bed.” 

“ _ I’ll run to the liquor store, _ ” Clint assured her. “ _ You just drive home safe. _ ” He hung up with his usual abruptness and Gwendolyn shook her head. 

She watched, somewhat embarrassed at her lack of control, as things were cleaned and straightened as she walked stiffly out of the restaurant. A child had spilled their chocolate milk on the tablecloth; the stain disappeared and the wrinkles eased. A busboy passing with a tray of dirty dishes jumped, making the tray rattle, as her magic scoured the plates clean; it straightened his shirt as well, got rid of the sweat stains beneath his arms and between his shoulders. 

Paying for her portion of the meal at the front, she snuck out to her car. The entire drive back her car was in motion, her magic kicking in and cleaning. Dust was wiped away, trash gathered into a neat pile, pockets of odor disappearing. 

She replayed her date over and over in her head, unable to help it.  _ You’d make a good housewife _ . 

What a joke. 

She was  _ a mage _ . She was her own person with a career and her own dreams and thoughts that did  _ not _ involve becoming a housewife. 

Perhaps she had been a bit vindictive when she described what she did.

In detail. 

To be fair, he had talked about how a good wife she would be. He even began to sing that stupid song ( _ The sailor said Brandy, you’re a fine girl, what a good wife you would be _ ) and for the rest of their meal before Gwendolyn left had only called her Brandy or “wifey”. 

So when he asked what she did for a living with her cleaning magic, Gwendolyn had jumped on the opportunity. She described it in great detail: the crime scenes that were easiest, the crime scenes that were the worst. Blood splatter and bone fragments and brain matter. The times where she needed multiple cleaning witches on hand with her, the times that they had drained themselves trying to clean everything up. 

Her date had gone green and had excused himself from the table, hobbling toward the bathrooms. She took the time to sneak away as well to call Clint and to prepare herself to leave. 

_ What a good wife _ , indeed. She grit her teeth. 

By the time she got home, her car was clean as if new and as she stepped out, she used her magic to throw the trash away in the trash bin in the garage. When she walked in, her magic found very little to clean and fizzled out. 

Clint had taken out the trash, had cleaned up her mess and put everything in order. The dishes were cleaned, dried, and put away. She paused, looking down at Clint who was napping on the couch. 

“You must have worn yourself out,” she said softly, careful not to wake him as she leaned over the back of the couch. “Why do all of this for little old me?” 

She found her favorite wine in the freezer—Clint’s attempt at making sure it was cold enough for her when she got home—and she used her magic to tug the cork out. The washing machine beeped and Clint leaped to his feet in alarm, his hair sticking up comically. 

Gwendolyn used her magic to get another glass. “Join me,” she ordered and walked to the couch. 

Clint obediently sat down. “Sorry,” he said as he accepted the glass of wine. He had a line of dried spit at the corner of his mouth and his clothes were rumpled, stained with water and cleaning solution. Her magic made her fingers itch. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.” 

She reached out and tapped the back of his hand with two of her fingers; she watched the red glitter of her magic slither up his arm like a lively snake. His hair fell back into order, the wrinkles eased out of his clothes; the stains disappeared. 

“You did all of this for me?” she asked even though it wasn’t really a question. The real question was, “ _ why? _ ” 

Clint looked away, toying with the stem of the plastic wine glass that Gwendolyn had given him. He ran his fingers through his newly-neatened hair; Gwendolyn’s magic zinged out without her consent and neatened it again before his hand had fully left. 

Most mages couldn’t drink very much without losing control of their magic, but Gwendolyn was one of those few that had mastered her art quickly. Her magic was the “general” kind, that could be applied to many things. Her grandmother had inspired her to clean and so she had honed her magic that way, enough that she was nearly able to say that her magic existed solely in that medium. 

Since there was nothing wrong with a little extra cleaning (at least in the privacy of her own home or the homes of her friends) she could indulge within reason. Too much and her magic would “remember” that it wasn’t solely bound by cleaning and would cause chaos around her. 

She took a long drink of her wine. Clint didn’t answer her—he never did. Instead he asked her about her date and she told him everything. 

Her date was cute but in looks only. He was obsessed with her being the perfect housewife. 

Clint huffed and took a long drink of his wine. “You find the worst people,” he complained, as he always did. “Why can’t they see you for you?” 

Gwendolyn took another long sip of her wine and used her magic to bring the bottle to the table, where she poured herself another glass. “Like you can?” she asked and Clint froze. “My magic likes you,” she continued, emboldened by wine and his silence. “ _ I _ like you.” 

_ A lot _ , she thought but didn’t add. She wasn’t sure if it was romantic, but she  _ could _ see herself loving him for the rest of her life. 

And whether it was romantic or not, she knew that he would love her for the rest of their lives. 

She said none of this, watching Clint as he seemed to struggle with himself. 

“Gwendy,” he said weakly. 

Reaching out, Gwendolyn let loose the control of her power. It was dangerous but she knew somehow, knew in the very depths of her soul, in the depths of her power, that it was alright. That  _ they  _ would be alright. 

“Clinton,” she teased. 

And just like that, everything was alright. Her magic, visible only to her, swirled around them both like living fireworks. As if that most instinctive part of her was assuring them both that everything was fine, that this was right. 

That everything  _ would _ be fine. 

Clint punched her shoulder gently. “You’d make a terrible housewife.” 

She waited until he took a sip of his drink before saying, “You’re right. I think  _ you’d _ be the housewife and  _ I’d _ be the breadwinner.” 

He choked and then joined her in laughter. They tapped their glasses together again. She refilled their wine glasses. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a lot of fun writing these little things. 
> 
> Right now I have another one coming up--it should be ready to post here next Thursday, the 22nd. 
> 
> For more information about when and where I will post things, feel free to follow me on Twitter at [dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). Thank you to all of those that have left this kudos and comments. I hadn't expected it, given that these are original works and not part of a fandom. It makes me very happy to know that it's enjoyed. 
> 
> Thank you so much!!
> 
> ~DC


	4. Whisk-ers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These days, Elisa smiles when someone tells her that her cooking is magical.
> 
> She used to argue that it was just hard work. Now she accepts it as a different kind of magic, one that wasn't of her own doing. It was love...and it was a cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun with this one. At first I had written it at work as a kind of mind-clearing exercise...what might it be like for a person that was really good at what they did to be in this world? What must it be like to have someone ask you how long you've studied magic when really they should have asked how long had you studied at the craft itself? 
> 
> And so this was born. 
> 
> I do hope you enjoy it, though please see the warning at the bottom of the page.

These days, Elisa smiles when someone tells her that her cooking is magical.

For a long time, a long time ago, she would demur that she didn’t have magic, would kindly shift the topic of conversation away; would insist—gently—that it was skill and practice, not magic. It didn’t take long after that for her to get annoyed, to say the least.

In time she had grown to hate any mention of magic. It was unfair to those that were blessed with such abilities and that only made her angrier about it. How many hours had she spent in the kitchen, perfecting these recipes? How many times had she worked on less than four hours of sleep just to make sure that everything was just right?

How often had a blogger or food critic wrote an article speculating that the only explanation for her food was that she was a witch? Perhaps even a mage?

They would ignore all of the work, all of the blood, sweat, and tears that she had spilled in pursuit of mastery in her craft; it was “only” magic, a wave of her hand. In their imagined world, she had not run away from home, hadn’t used all of her savings for college to travel Europe; hadn’t begged in a language she barely spoke to learn how to cook. There hadn’t been burns or cuts or nights that dragged into mornings as she prepared the next day’s dishes.

Some nights she would stew in her anger, reducing herself down into a tightly coiled ball of rage. Never in front of her cooks, never in front of her employees or customers; always home alone with only the plaintive cries of her cat who would rub his face against her hands and lick at her scarred fingertips as he begged for her affections instead of her stony silence.

Those nights, those terrible nights, she would only find solace in burying her face in her cat’s thick fur. He would put his paws on her head as if bestowing a blessing and groom her sweaty hair until she fell asleep.

She would take it personally. Was  _ she _ , Elisa Hoffman, not enough on her own? Was the only explanation for her hard work, the  _ hours _ of dedication she had put into her craft, magic? Did her suffering to get to this point in her career mean nothing?

Was that the only conclusion that anyone could draw? That she was a cooking witch? A spice witch? A trained mage?

There was speculation that she was lying about her lack of magic in the kitchen—she’d had nay-sayers and critics come by, demanding that she allow a magic-sniffer in the kitchen with her.  _ What would it prove? _ She had asked them and banned them from the kitchen.

The next day they would release a bad review of the restaurant. The executive chef was prideful, was cheating somehow—magic was the only explanation for Elisa Hoffman’s skills. There was speculation that she was hiding behind her magic and didn’t want to be revealed for a charlatan—but wasn’t the food she put out, that she won numerous awards for, enough?

It wasn’t.

She was invited on cooking shows; she declined.

She was invited to participate in cooking competitions; she refused.

Local fairs and food festivals requested her presence as an honored guest; too distrustful, she hid herself away.

It was no way to live. Even her cat seemed to think she was too much of a recluse. He would poke her with his cold nose and nip at her ears and drag her shoes around the condo by their laces until she shooed him away. That at least would get her out of bed, get her walking around, and her cat would chase her socked feet around until she picked him up and cradled him to her chest. Then, in standard cat form, he would wiggle until she put him down. He’d jump up on her bookshelf and glower at her as he cleaned a paw, as he cleaned his long, white whiskers.

Thing was, they were all human. While it was easy to believe that a cooking witch could wave a hand and complete a dish, it wasn’t what truly happened. A witch would spend  _ years _ honing their control over their power—a formally-trained mage, even longer.

And while the ingredients in the kitchen may “sing” to them, a cooking witch or mage was still capable of making a terrible dish. Magic was not a crutch; it was not a convenient way to “skip” steps.

She wasn’t sure what changed or how; just that one day she woke up with an idea. No, that wasn’t quite true. Many years later, she would decide that she had woken up with the idea, yes, but she been inspired by eating a very late dinner at 2am and watching her cat parkour around her condo as he chased the laser pointer she held in her free hand.

It took a year and support from the owners of the restaurant she worked at—they liked her, they liked her idea, and with their backing she got investors. With their help she found cooks and chefs and witches and mages—people with a love of food and cooking, no matter their background. She had “stages” built according to regional and specialty cuisines: they were open kitchens and she had a friend who had a friend who owned a bakery/café that referred her to a cleaning witch who could spell the glass displays against smudging. 

A Dinner and A Show opened to great acclaim. Now her cooking really  _ was _ magical, but it wasn’t only in the quality of her food. There were people pulling noodles for stir fry or noodle soups and a mage at the dessert section that could entertain children and adults with dancing pastries and crepes juggled through the air.

She held cooking demonstrations and private lessons when the kitchen wasn’t open for service: you didn’t need magic to participate because cooking skills transcended the necessity for such things. Some of her chefs held their own classes for beginning cooking witches or those whose magic had no specialty.

One day she woke up with her cat curled up on the pillow next to her and after watching him sleep, after staring at the white hairs that were becoming more prominent on his muzzle, she rolled out of bed and pitched a new idea: A Dinner and A Show would return to being a restaurant.

She would open a new cooking school nearby and named it something nice-sounding; students were jokingly called Whisk-ers after her cat. Whisk-ers of a certain skill would participate in the restaurant if they chose—she developed a specialty menu so that once a week, their original recipes would be featured.

They called the original Whiskers her familiar and she was surprised at how…pleased she felt. That deep-seated jealousy, the sharp hurt that she felt whenever someone assumed that she was a magic-user, had left her at some point.

A local artist made her fine gift of a statue of Whiskers and she had it placed in the lobby of the cooking school; she commissioned the same artist to make a sister piece to put in the restaurant. The bakery students made cat-shaped cookies and cat-shaped bread and other pastries shaped like paws; some of her cooking students created dishes as if a cat had walked across them, with sauces on the dishes in the shape of paw prints.

Time passed; she grew older.

One day she woke up and found that Whiskers hadn’t. She had known that the day was coming and in some ways was pleased that it had been in his sleep, on the pillow next to her.

It didn’t make it hurt any less, though.

She had tried to go about her day but couldn’t get past the lobby when she laid eyes on the Whisk-ers statue. For the first time in years, she called off work to sit in the silence of her too-empty apartment.

The next day she woke up to find that the local newspaper posted an obituary for Whiskers. Her executive chef reordered the menu with a section dedicated to Whiskers, with a percentage of proceeds dedicated to a local shelter; her servers dressed in somber black as if they were in mourning too.

She allowed herself one day of full mourning before jumping back in. Thinking of Whiskers, she supported local shelters; she couldn’t bear to walk in them for fear of seeing Whiskers in the faces of those cats.

Her culinary classes were successful; A Dinner and A Show was run entirely by Whisk-ers who had earned their mastery in their crafts. She considered opening another one but decided against it.

Now she had more time on her hands. This time when she traveled, she didn’t need to beg for lessons, didn’t need to deplete her savings to learn. She still worked hard, worked long hours, and spread her knowledge with her Whisk-ers when she returned.

These days, people still call her cooking magical. She smiles at those speculations, now. When they ask, actually ask, she agrees.

“It’s magic, alright,” she will say with a sad, tired smile. “Just, it wasn’t  _ my _ magic—it was all Whiskers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: animal death**
> 
> It's funny. Almost none of my friends know that I write. One of the few that does know asked about my recent projects so to be safe, I told her about this one, since we were in more polite company. She asked to read it so I showed it to her.
> 
> When she was done, she told me, "now I know why you have an icon of a smug little dragon drinking from a jar labeled 'Readers' Tears'!"
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed it. This is probably one of my favorites. 
> 
> As always, feel free to visit me on twitter at [dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). There I try to post updates about when and where I will be posting stories. 
> 
> Or you can wander there and find me reblogging pictures of cats and other animals. That also works. 
> 
> ~DC

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come and find me on twitter at [dracoduceus](https://twitter.com/dracoduceus). I can also be found on curiouscat at [dracoduceus](https://curiouscat.me/dracoduceus) as well. 
> 
> I am trying to get better about posting updates there. 
> 
> ~DC


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